


last spring

by leukoplakiaa



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Characters World Hopping, Injury Reference, Spoilers for FE: 4; 11/12; 15, What-If, discontinued
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-11
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:07:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27508087
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leukoplakiaa/pseuds/leukoplakiaa
Summary: For heroes of a different world, Fodlan is somewhere between life and death.(discontinued)
Kudos: 6





	1. 1174

**1174 - Verdant Rain Moon**

A woman he’d never seen before hovered over him. Long dusty white hair threatened to spill on to him, tucked behind her ears. Azelle’s eyes took forever to focus: her nose was crooked, her cornblue eyes wide as she looked over him, and her face spoke of a past beauty, skin burned at the jaw. Did he survive the Meteors? Was this the after? Did Arvis spare him amongst the confusion? She didn’t look like any servant he’d seen in the household before, but he had not been home in years.

He tried to open his mouth. Everything was dreadfully sore. It felt like the world was sitting on his chest, and when he tried to move his arms, he came to realize it was the weight of the blankets on top of him. Shivering beneath the layers, this had to be the after, post Belhalla, killed by the very Roten Ritter he hoped to join. The flames left him frigid. The flames left him begging for more.

Dying didn’t hurt as much as he thought. He’d been smashed with axes and pelted with arrows, and so far he could say he preferred dying to being stuck by tips. The woman over him confused him, if he was already dead, but he’d never died before to compare it to anything. Azelle figured it didn’t hurt to ask, but his tongue didn’t want to move either.

She seemed to finally notice he was awake. She smiled gently, like the first morning rays, lifting her head to give him space. She was dressed comfortably, a deep green dress with little adornments that covered half of her neck. Her mouth moved, he heard her, but it was gibberish. Was he dumb by fire? It was the way life was going, it seemed. Azelle shook his head. All in Judgral spoke the same tongue. His head ached at the implications. His brother found the one foreigner in all the land and left her to take care of him.

Still finding it impossible to speak for the moment, he shook his head. Her smile never wavered, but it came close as she sat back. Standing up, he thought maybe she was leaving to find a translator, but instead she peeled back the brown, utilitarian blankets he was burrowed under down to the knees. She offered her hands, wrought with the same rough skin as her jaw, curling her fingers inward in what he understood. He’d been young before.

The absence of blankets lifted some of the weight off of him. It took every bit of energy, but Azelle managed to slowly sit up. His arms were pink and bare, he noticed. His clothes must not have made it, and the presumably borrowed shirt was a bit short on him. Dying wasn’t painful, but it was tedious, he realized.

His shoulders shivered. The woman propped another pillow behind him for support. She hobbled on a kilted gait to a small table by the window, pouring him water in a wooden cup. Her smile never faded, but the wobble in her quick steps told him of pain. Some wounds never healed.

She helped him drink. Her hand cradled his head with the tenderness of his old nurse, and the patience of a saint while he took slow gulps of the water. It did not taste like the water of Velthomer. Was he in Belhalla? It would be easier to tend to him there, he supposed, before taking him home. He was in no condition to be warped.

His tongue felt more operational. One dry swallow as the woman sat his glass down. “Thank you,” he said. Her head cocked, and they were both speaking gibberish to one another. “Do you speak the tongue?” he asked slowly.

Her brow furrowed. Her head shook. Pointing at her chest, she slowly enunciated for him: “Rih-nay-ah.” It felt a little ridiculous to be spoken to so plainly (his brain was the one thing he had, after all), but language barriers were a forgotten concept where he hailed from.

Azelle pointed at her. “Rinea.” She nodded. Her smile showed a little hint of teeth. One of them was chipped. Rinea, Rinea, Rinea. Unlike any name he heard before. He pointed at himself. “Ah-zel.”

Rinea needed a moment. “Azelle,” she echoed; she slurred it some. Her mouth moved again, but they were back to gibberish; admittedly it was gibberish with a point. He heard the beginnings and end of a sentence, intonation of a question, a statement. It was there, but lost on him. She sighed, her shoulders deflating. Pointing at him, she patted the bed, pointed at herself, and then the door. He understood; he’d been late to speak as a child, so him and his nurse had done plenty of pointing. He’d ask the master of the household who Rinea was.

If he wanted to make a break for it, he was sure he couldn’t. _Sitting_ was exhausting. The flames were exhausting.

Killed by fire. Fitting.

She refilled his glass before leaving. The wooden door cracked open, and Rinea was not alone. Death had guards. A mountain of a man, he towered over Rinea. Siblings? There were shades of blue in her hair after all. He was obviously strong, broad shoulders hidden beneath a long coat stretched over them. His eyes flicked to Azelle, free of malice, before returning to Rinea. They spoke the same language, and he offered his arm to her. Belhalla/Velthomer/death was odd.

Azelle ignored the feeling in his gut.

Left alone, he looked around the room. The walls were stone, sparsely decorated, and the sole window in the room let in light through parted windows. The bed could have fit him in it twice over, but like the walls, it was sparse. Simple blankets, white sheets, white pillows. His room at Velthomer (he knew it was untouched) admittedly followed the same tastes, but with a few more personal adornments, small gifts from his nurse and letters from Lex and Tailtyu.

Tailtyu. Was she still breathing? Her hand wrapped around the hilt of her slim sword, dodging the barrage of Meteors raining from the sky. She was quick, angry, and before being toss from his steed he saw her disappear into the trees. How far could she get? Where would she go?

Lex. Did he survive? He’d never been too resistant to magic and always weighed down by his axes. He hated thinking it, Lex laid to waste just outside of where Azelle was being healed.

He spared a glance at the closed door. Azelle doubted he could get far, if anywhere. Another drink, and the cup he reached for wobbled, threatening to spill on to him. Things were going great. He’d be back in his study before he knew it. Back to normal.

No. It felt wrong.

He’d never been _this_ weak. Weak, yes, but never too weak to not hold the weight of his body. He’d caught a sickness once, during a deep winter in the duchy, but he’d been a child and played as if it never happened. He felt it now, pulling his legs free of the blankets, woozy in his head as his feet touched the floor. Who’s socks were these? A little gross. He saw himself more now, borrowed shorts and a shirt, and while his skin was _pink_ , he was not burnt anywhere; a blessing of his minor blood? His skin felt weird to the touch, though, _hot_ , like the flames now burrowed under his skin, but he felt the furthest thing from warm. Frigid and on fire, all at once.

A meteor storm with his brother. Twice in a lifetime.

Standing was a hassle- he tipped back once, and needed thirty breaths before he could try again. Was he _that_ weak now? Exhaustion? Healing? Panic? All at once, none of the above? Perhaps Rinea was bringing his brother, and he’d have all the answers like he always did ( _why?)._

Azelle finally made it to his feet without losing it. He propped himself up on the rough stone wall, and the walls of the Velthomer home, at least, were wooden. Step, step. It’d be ages since he’d been in Belhalla, usually left in Velthomer with tutor and nurse, so he wasn’t one to say what the homes of Belhalla were built out of.

He hobbled to the window. Sliding the curtains open, the sun warmed him some. It was midday given the height of it, and – rain. There was rain on the ground and heavy on the spires of buildings he didn’t recognize. Wyverns circled lazily in the air. Two contradictory images. The window had enough of an inner sill for him to sit on, feeling his knees grow weak ( _weak)_ , and his gut twisted again.

So this was death, not an apology.

Death _was_ frigid, he supposed.

It’s what he deserved, he supposed.

He’d never put much thought into dying. Was this a pause before death to make sure he was at his best? Eternal life through death deserved a body that didn’t shake. Head leaned back against the window, he reached up to touch his cheek. Warm. Warm to the touch, but so cold in the soul. Heal staves could only suture, put you back on your feet until you could get proper care: they were not a cure all.

Dead and alone.

Azelle sighed. Buried with his mother, perhaps? Arvis _had_ been fond of her. (Arvis _had_ been fond of him, and look where he ended up.)

The door cracked – Rinea poked her head. She’d redone her hair, the loose hairs that previously dangled in his face now hidden in a series of braids. Aideen did the job just fine. She opened the door further. The mass of a man stood further back, hand on the hilt of a sword hanging off of his hip. He could probably snap Azelle in half.

A new face appeared with them. Her crowned head held high, hands steepled in front of her hips, she radiated a regal power that commanded deference, yet he did not feel uncomfortable. Light green hair fell past her shoulders, draped in blues and whites. The dress fell in the shape of a High Priest’s gown, down to the floor. Bowing was out of the question.

Rinea and the woman entered alone; the door did not shut. She clicked her tongue at him, and maybe if they spoke the same tongue she would scold him. Her hand gestured to the new woman. “Ray-ah,” she said slowly. Rhea’s held tilted, humming. Rinea said a few words to her, and he was certain it was over the language barrier.

Rhea looked a little too official to be a household lackey. Women were few and far between in House Velthomer since the passing of his nurse. The cook was a man, the help men, the jockeys men, and Velthomer’s stained history men.

Her colors matched no affiliation he knew and certainly not someone who’d be in either manor. Who was he to say what the after world held? (Almost as if he wasn’t dead.)

“Ray-ah,” Azelle echoed. He sat up straighter. Rinea grabbed one of the blankets off the bed, draping it around him. She fussed like a hen. His nurse had been the same – some of it was love, some of it duty. For a bastard he was well treated. Almost a full son, some days, in the eyes of the household, but the truth of his birth always hovered. Arvis could not always protect him.

Rhea asked him a few questions. He knew it by the tone of her voice. He shook his head to every one. To her credit, there were no visible signs if she was frustrated. The same could not be said for him. Azelle did not wish to be such a burden – he’d always bordered on useless as a child, remedied by his ability to use the magic in his blood and to bury his head in books. There was a reason he did not specialize in fire-magic: no reason to. Fala made fire easy to cast, perhaps, but it was not his only skill. Never much of a healer, admittedly, yet Arvis’ high expectations were met time and time again, though some days it was harder than others. He pressed his palms against the sill.

Inefficient in life, useless in death.

Arvis.

Azelle looked at the women, eyes heavy (the simplest of things: hadn’t he just woken up? – being roasted alive could do that), chattering amongst themselves. Rhea’s soft gaze stayed on him, bathed in light from the window, hair falling across strong shoulders, and there was a tenderness there. Even the roughest of priests were good at heart.

What came next?

Rhea’s touch startled him out of his thoughts. She moved so openly, tilting his head up. The heat beneath his skin disappeared where she touched and the chill he felt everywhere moved into the emptiness. Her hand, he saw from his peripheral vision, was encased in a soft white light, casting over his skin and shining in his vision.

Healing magic. Staffless healing magic, and she looked no worse for it. Aideen did it a few times, incantations on her tongue and forehead dabbled with sweat, during times of need. Only a handful of times before she somehow grew paler and needed to lean on him. He hoped she was well. How could she not be?

Magic built beneath his skin. She removed her hand and he could not help but follow the motion of her fist, clasped again beneath her chest. Rhea bowed at the hips, floral arrangement on her headpiece threatening to tip off. She spoke a few confident words punctuated by his name – tone was everything – and Rinea nodded likewise with her. It felt wrong: whoever she was, it was evident she was important, and he, if his gut was right, a no one in this manor (a feeling he knew well).

Azelle bowed his head in turn (raised with manners), tipsy as a result. “Thank you, Rhea.”


	2. 3rd day of the horsebow moon

**1174 –** **2** **nd** **Day of** **Horsebow Moon**

Azelle spent the remainder of the day awake. It was not easy, admittedly, where the sun hung and how slow it seemed to move, but days were long when the sun hung that high, weren’t they?

Rinea made for easy company. There was not much room for talk, admittedly, but she spoke plenty to him. He picked up a few words over their time together, similar enough to the tongue in Grannvale that he was not completely lost after his head cleared. He mainly spoke in small sentences to her, and by the way her nose scrunched and she occasionally laughed, his spliced sentences did not make much sense.

Still, she was kind. She brought him three meals a day, more than he expected. Gaining his strength back came with every rise of the sun and each sip of tea; they sit by the window, and there was rain with no puddles, soaked greedily into the ground. It cast a shadow over the impressive monoliths outside, and the more he looked, the more his suspicions were confirmed.

The fourth full sunrise, she brought him clothes. They were a welcome; the set he currently wore, embroided with a yellow crest on the upper shoulder, did little for the new chill calling his bones home. She set breakfast on the small table, brown cloth bundled under her left arm. She’d exchanged her own dress for one of a different color, a dusty orange frock that stopped at her knees. He didn’t _mean_ to look, but the skin there was likewise littered with scars. She caught him; Azelle looked away quickly. “Lady Rhea,” she said.

“I...” think: always the quick study, always working towards the expectations set before him; why else keep a bastard in the already stained Velthomer title? (because his blood said there was something worthy in him: the same magic that almost killed him saved him.) “I thank her.” Rinea didn’t laugh at him, so he stored the words away for later use.

She looked away while he dressed. No patch of skin was outright burnt on him, smatterings of red patches on his skin. Some of it could have come from the Yied Desert, he rationalized, but he was always covered.

_Yied. Dracoknights on high. Hooves halted in the sand:_ _listening_ _._

_Belhalla. The procession. Arvis refusing to meet his eyes. The tension of the knight brigade, the shuffling of horses. The hairs on the back of his neck_ (now gone).

He shrugged the clothes on. None of it fit him quite right: the socks rolled up to his knees, and the sleeves stopped midway on his forearms. The shirt just made it to the waist of the pants which were a little big.

His knees met the ridge of the mattress. He was _here_ (wherever it was) and everyone else-

Pushing a breath past his lips, he straightened himself up. He’d return home once he was well enough, once his head didn’t spin and his limbs didn’t quit. Arvis never denied him answers ( _Lord Sigurd, cradled in Arden’s arms: unrecognizable_ ).

“Dressed?” Rinea asked.

“Dressed,” he repeated. Another word committed to memory.

She turned around. Noticing the fit, she tutted her tongue, shaking her head. More words he hadn’t caught up on left her mouth. He smiled sheepishly.

Azelle grabbed the plates, feeling the weight in his wrists – wellness would come soon. He took the normal spot in the window, and Rinea was quick to join, plate balanced on her lap; there was a grace to her that spoke of a peculiar childhood. Rain continued to pelt down, but he saw a sliver of blue peaking out from the gray skies. Perhaps a day left? Everything came to pass. Beneath the chill of the rain the air held the warmth of the summer. What month?

Rinea told him what each part of breakfast was called with a few other accompanying words. She was patient, tremendously so, and he wondered how long it would take before she didn’t have to talk to him like an idiot. He’d been late to speak but then chatty as a child; hopefully the trend would follow.

The time between meals featured more talking. Rinea spoke plenty for the both of them and his questions only built. She was willing to listen to them even if she could not understand them.

“What is this place?” he asked. Rinea cocked her head. Azelle touched the wall. “This place.”

“Garreg Mach,” she answered. It gave zero answers. What kind of name was _Garreg Mach_?

“Garreg Mach?” It felt wrong on his tongue. He’d never heard of it. His suspicions that this was some sort of _after_ were only strengthened but for all the talk of death he’d been privy to, Garreg Mach never came up (but who was he to argue death?).

Rinea nodded. Her chin barely moved. “Garreg Mach _am_ Fódlan.”

He ran his tongue over his teeth. One of them was chipped from the first time he rode a horse. “Fódlan,” he repeated flatly.

Fódlan. Garreg Mach. Judgral. Far from home—wasn’t he?—but not in death. The ache returned behind his eyes. He survived—he survived and was in a warm bed, fed and clothed as he’d always been, and the rest of Lord Sigurd’s army laid dying (all dying—) just outside of Belhalla, just outside of redemption.

Rinea touched his hand. The skin of her fingers was rough. “Azelle?” she started, hesitation evident.

“I am fine,” he said, and their few words they’d exchanged did not work here. He’d find his way around the kitchen and not much else. “Fine,” he promised, fist over his heart. It seemed to be enough for her — the worry dotted in her brows disappeared, only if somewhat.

* * *

Lunch and dinner happened the same way. Lunch seemed to be the smallest meal of the day, or perhaps that was how Rinea took hers. His only source of company, and he wouldn’t besmirch her tastes. A sandwich of some kind, complete with fish and cabbage (which he recognized) that she taught him the words for. A stew of some kind was dinner set in thick china.

Rinea’s patience rivaled a saint, really.

With dinner, she brought a sewing kit. His personal experience using them was...disappointing, to say the least. She mimed _to bring in the pants_ by grabbing the fabric of her own dress and pulling it around her body. She spoke the phrase too; he botched the second half. Still, he’d been here before: most of his clothes were Arvis’ hand-me-downs until he’d stopped growing taller, and his nurse could hem anything (her passing brought a stern old maid into the home to mend his clothes).

Rinea’s hands shook as she worked, flashes of the scars on the inside of her thumbs. She was burned thoroughly, it seemed — he knew charred skin when he saw it. Kitchen incident? She carried herself with too much poise to have worked in a kitchen, potentially a noble, but there was a hollowness to her face that spoke of missed meals. More questions to add to the pile (assuming he didn’t wake up one day imprisoned in Velthomer).

She worked slowly to fix the borrowed pants. And, well, she talked, too. The cadence to her voice was easy, a woman who knew she wouldn’t be cut off, yet she paused as if the words did not come naturally to her either. She pricked his hip once and apologized profusely; he learned to read tone young.

Words jumbled around his head. Could she teach him to write, again, in Fódlan? He doubt it transcribed similarly to what he knew, but it did not hurt to try. He refused to be a burden on another host. “Fine,” he said coarsely. A drink, eventually. Answers, eventually.

Garreg Mach appeared quiet. The hallway outside of his room only made noise when Rinea came to visit, and while wyvern and pegasi dotted the sky complete with riders, no noise came through the windows. Few people walked about down below. Some of them were fitted in black uniforms while others wore heavy white frocks. A couple oddities stuck out, fully armored white soldiers, men and women in white and red tunics, but they looked to be the minority from his room. The sounds of the bells seem to rang for ages bouncing off of the towering buildings. Would he be permitted out? Where was Fódlan? There was a land to return to.

Nothing felt wrong. Everything felt wrong.

Rinea finished as the sun slipped behind the riders. She stepped back to admire her work, nodding curtly (her chin moved this time). “It is good,” she said. “Do you—?”

“Good...it is good. I—“ it slipped past him but Rinea supplied the word. “I agree.”

She smiled again. It was a natural sight.


	3. rinea's 3rd day of the moon

**1174 –** **3** **rd** **Day of** **Horsebow Moon**

The dining hall was busy in the morning. Low sunlight streamed through the windows, slanting across the buildings. Rinea heard the earliest fishers packing up as activity picked up and the newst batch of students at the Officers Academy began leaving their dorms. The commoners held on the first floor where fairly quiet and rarely drew too much attention to themselves; this was only her second school year at the monastery, so she hesitated to make too many generalizations.

Trends certainly existed.

The staff were efficient. Six minutes ago she stood outside with only her cloak and Frey’s kindness for protection from the elements and now they stood sheltered under the arch of the door frame. If the smell was anything to go by, breakfast was turnips with eggs: not her favorite, but Rinea learned long ago to be grateful for any food that came her way.

Frey stood far taller than her, her head barely clearing his chest. Being slight was her card in life. “Where will you be today?” she asked. The droll of the rain behind them, she could begin her morning singing. They’d rushed over from the entrance hall, where he met her every morning, and the few moments outdoors did enough to soak her hair to her scalp through her hood.

It rained, too, when she found herself in Fódlan.

His burns fared much better than hers.

“There is a faculty meeting after breakfast ends. The mock battle between the Houses is next week.” One step, two step. She took a glance at the bulletin board, pushing her hood back. Students managed to lose objects already. “I hear Professor Manuela is doing well. The students like her.”

Rinea hummed. “She seems kind. I’ve not really had a chance to see her.” Her quarters were separate of the faculty housing, close to Lady Rhea should she need anything, and she _truly_ only interacted with Lady Rhea and Frey. The disfigurement of her face scared many away.

It was odd, living without the beauty her lord once saw in her.

Frey laid a steadying hand on her shoulder as someone squeezed past them. “Are you heading back?”

“I am. He is better,” she said. Rinea brushed her fingers through her drenched hair. “I wish I could take him out of his quarters.”

“Has Lady Rhea forbade it?”

She shook her head. “I would hate to push him too far too fast. I wouldn’t be able to get him back to his quarters if something happened!” Both red, weak, and notably foreign, a boy complete with ill-fitting clothing. She had the words, perhaps, but most of the priests and Knights looked upon as if she were cursed (if only they knew the half of it). “I fear it may be a bit of a shock for him; emotionally, if not physically.”

She looked _up_ , and spent enough time with Frey to read him: he was curious; Frey had already been in Fódlan for a year when she arrived. Rinea would not drag him into her theories just yet, not until Azelle spoke with Lady Rhea, and she wouldn’t mention it public. The way Azelle’s eyes widen when she mentioned Fódlan said enough. She lived it herself.

Frey met her. “I am free after the meeting if you require support. Lunch is fairly calm. More exposure to this language could help, too,” he offered; neither were native speakers but they made do (was _home_ a place she could return to? did she even want to?). She did not doubt Frey’s abilities, but she _also_ knew the cold air made his old wounds act up. Rinea did not know the whole tale. He did not know hers.

“That would be wonderful,” she replied. Three more in front of them. She hoped Frey wouldn’t be late. His responsibilities in Garreg Mach outnumbered hers, and he existed more in the grand scheme of things. Her position, before Azelle came, was to serve Lady Rhea throughout the day and whatever various tasks she assigned to her. Rarely anything too strenuous, it was an easier life than she ever had in Rigel. Full meals and a warm bed were a welcome. She did not mind. There was a fullness in working, feeling her shoulders burn and catching the bottom of her dress under her heels. Work felt valid. Meals were not dependent on her labor. Time for leisure, too, and the itch in her fingers found reprieve in knitting. Traveling merchants in the market typically sold creams for her skin, and the town proper was close enough if she felt the need.

Never a day of boredom since arriving in Fódlan.

Not that they were all good.

“Do you remember where the room is?” Rinea asked, the same room she’d been holed up in, and likely Frey. Far from prying eyes, far from trouble if he left the room (not that he was imprisoned). Lady Rhea frequented the hall during her strolls throughout the monastery (it kept her young, she claimed) and occasionally Seteth.

Frey nodded. She hushed up as they reached the forefront of the line. The main course (turnips and eggs: a distinctly Rigelian meal) most mornings was accompanied by side dishes. Azelle so far had not said no to any meal, and his stomach seemed strong enough. She did not hesitate over the breakfast sweets. Her time in Fódlan started much rougher than his; food still did not taste entirely right, but she knew the appeal, knew why she needed to eat.

She balanced a plate in her hand, and the other one sat on the flat plane of her forearm, wrist up. Rinea was stronger here than she’d been in Rigel. An upside to the unfortunate status of her life. “I will see you later, Sir Frey,” she said with a bow of the head.

“Until then, Rinea.” He gave a similar inclination of the head.

Rinea moved with ease through the crowds. Her body resisted some movements, sore in many ways, constantly. Various knights milled in the front hall though most of the masses stalled in the dining hall.

The monastery was far larger than her original home, and grander than Rigel’s Castle too. No one went hungry within these walls. She occasionally got lost to the day, learning the layout with the pass of each day. Frey was far better at it as she was a year behind him in exposure. Through this hall and that hall, a left here, right there, stairs around this building.

No one bothered her. She shouldered the first of the doors open into the largely empty corridor. Living quarters for when the school houses were larger, when they were empty they were off-limits to the students. The Academy’s numbers were smaller than they’d been in the past, Lady Rhea told her, which allowed Rinea stay there when she first awoke in Fódlan, jaw forced shut and body movable like a doll.

The heat of summer still made her wince.

She opened the door; the knob stuck some, long on the list of repairs, and she almost lost a plate in the process. It was preferable for Azelle to eat (slim and healing), so it would always be her plate on the floor.

No shock came to Rinea to see Azelle already up. He kept time well despite being in Fódlan, if her suspicions were correct. His head in his hands was not a new sight, curtains perpetually cracked; the sunlight here felt harsher than it ever had in Rigel yet painfully muted, even beneath the rain. Her head split for months upon her arrival. The summer months still pained her eyes.

Wishing not to spook him, she shut the door with just enough force to draw attention. He picked his head up, notably startled. “It’s rough, isn’t it?” she asked. “Should I close them?”

He stared. She’d learn it was not out of rudeness but rather an attempted understanding. He was picking up on it, fairly quickly, “No.” She could not place the accent. Many came through the monastery, and she could not place _him_ from his vibrant hair to the shape of his eyes. He did not look like he belonged in Rigel or Zofia, either, and she could say nothing for Frey’s land.

“Does your head ache?” She sat the plates down before she could make a fool of herself. She laid her hand flat on her forehead. “Head?” she asked.

“Head?” he echoed. He touched his own, shaking his head. “I am fine.” Rinea wondered how much of it was truth. He’d said nothing of pain since waking up (she was sure there was some).

She would not push it. “I see. Shall we eat?”

* * *

Azelle stood barely taller than her, but his posture was good. He picked up a few more words throughout their morning talk, and he managed a few (admittedly stilted) sentences going back and forth. She did not know how else to talk to him, to teach him, for she was not a teacher, but he seemed to follow through immersion (still, he deserved better than her). She’d yet to recognize his original tongue.

“People are out,” he said. Rinea’s eyesight had not been the same since the incident. Still, she followed his vision, students huddled under various refuges against the onslaught of rain.

“It is the free day here,” she responded. “The Academy students free day, actually, but the rain doesn’t give Garreg Mach justice. There’s a fishing tournament today, too.” He cocked his head; some of the words seem to translate easier for him.

“Fieshing?” he asked.

“ _Fishing_ ,” she stressed. She cast a fake line; Frey was not a fan of the past time, but he went with her. Frey did not have to do all he did for her, really, but she did not shy away from it. Who else was there?

He mimicked the motion, but the confusion did not leave his face. “Feish?”

“ _Fish_ ,” she stressed again. She’d never seen fishing poles like Fódlan had (nor the abundance of food) so his confusion was understandable. Fódlan was ahead in many ways compared to Rigel, and perhaps ahead of wherever he formerly called home.

Rinea was midway through a pantomime for _fish_ and he copying her when a knock resounded on the door. Lunch already? Azelle’s attention turned to the door, hands dropping to his side and with it the tail of his fake-fish. They’d been alone for the past week; Lady Rhea had not been back (though she desired to see him again, of course), and Frey was busy while the Academy was in full-swing.

“If you were feeling up to it, I thought we could have lunch in the dining hall,” she explained. Seeing the words visibly rattle around his head, she left him to it. Rinea smoothed the front of her frock before opening the door. Frey, tall and strong as always, smiled down at her in the polite-way he often did; she felt nothing. “Is everything well?” she asked.

“It is as usual.” Frey glanced over her. “Is he well?”

“We were talking about fish,” she offered. She peeked out past him, hallway empty. “ _He’s never heard of_ _Fódlan,_ _Frey_. _He stares at_ _out the window_ _like it’s new._ ”

“ _Maybe, Rinea, he’s never been to Garreg Mach.”_

She crossed her arms. “ _He was found like us_.”

Frey sighed, long use to her. “ _And if he is?_ ”

“ _Then he’s cursed like us_.” Was cursed the word? She debated it internally when the thought crossed her mind. Rinea, confident she’d be dead in Rigel, considered it a blessing most days. Life was not easy, yes, but here she was free, at least. There were no dark gods to sacrifice her to, no fiances to take the bait.

Berkut.

A mistake.

Rinea bit the rest of her tongue. They could argue this if they wanted to, but she did not. Azelle could tell them his home when the words came to him.

She would not gloat too hard.

“Lunch?” Rinea realized she’d never mentioned a dining hall to him before.

Rinea turned back to him. It was easy to smile, and it hid nothing. “Lunch. Outdoors.” He looked at the window. A bad choice of words, perhaps. More words to work on, more words to expose him to. He was further ahead than she had been after a week, but she spent weeks bedridden in bandages and salves. There was a bright-eyed intelligence to him that she found promising, and Lady Rhea shared the sentiment during their private conversations.

“Fresh air,” she tried, pounding her fist on her sternum. “Make you strong.” She’d never belonged in Rigel. Azelle looked past her, and she remembered, again, that he’d only met Frey the one time. His sole company since waking, and if her experience was anything to go by, it was hard to trust when you could not talk. “Frey and I are friends,” she explained.

Elbowing Frey, he piped up. “Rinea and I typically share our meals. I extend that offer to you.”

Azelle hesitated a moment longer. “Lunch. Yes.”


	4. 8th day of the horsebow moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCONTINUED

**1174—8 th Day of Horsebow Moon**

The rain finally let up. The sky, too, was clear, and he saw Fódlan’s sun in its glory; the heat made his skin itch, and he resisted the urged to scratch. Dampness made the air heavy, his hair stuck to the back of his neck. He _did_ tug there. Summers in Belhalla were never comfortable, and summers in Velthomer were bearable, even if he did not always the constitution for it. He did not inherit his mother’s sturdiness.

Lex had been strong since their youth, though, and Tailtiu was Tailtiu. He and Lex were extras in a way, and Tailtiu...was Tailtiu, a far stronger swimmer than he’d ever been. He’d been lighter than Tailtiu for _one season_ and it was his lot in life to be tossed like a sack of flour, drenched and sulking.

Spare sons had freedom spare daughters never did.

Tailtiu tried.

No more. Deaths in the desert, so far yet so close, a never ending droll of knights swooping from the sky. Deaths outside of Belhalla ordered by his brother, _his_ death, one final disappointment. Hopefully he’d be buried with his mother if there was a body, a name on her stone if not. Would Arvis be bothered to do as much? Before, he thought maybe so, but the first Meteor crash changed his mind.

Fódlan.

Another chance. A personal hell? A fever dream while he laid dying?

His dreams rarely lasted this long.

Azelle ran his fingers through his hair again. Time to try and ask Rinea for a hairbrush. A proper bath, too. Rags left him feeling just as grimy. He’d been fed, clothed (would it be too much to ask for warmer clothes?; he loathed to spit in the face of his host), and kept in a warm bed for numerous sunrises; surely a real bath was not out of the question. The monastery seemed kind enough (he understood the odd looks he got in the dining hall).

Rinea and Frey explained to him, the best they could, daily life at Garreg Mach. Within the walls of Garreg Mach, there was both a church of some faith he did not recognize ( _church_ was denoted by Frey constructing _the_ _steeple_ out of his fingers and a fork and Rinea being _the people_ until he roughly croaked out the Fódlan word for _church_ ; some things never changed) and a school of some sort that Frey instructed at. There had been _more_ , but Rinea’s excited explanation slowed when she tuned back in and noticed Azelle’s confused expression.

He tried. Really, he did, but between learning what was on his plate and trying to figure out _where_ Fódlan was, how he lived, if he lived, it was much to digest, try as he did.

Fódlan. Artwork on the walls he did not recognize, vegetables he did not know, even a different weight to the air that sat heavily on his shoulders.

Rinea kept him company during the day, a poor lot in life, until whatever came next came. Frey seemed kind if more so on the quiet side (though not talking to him now was more than understandable), and Rinea managed to explain to him that Frey was there to, literally, catch him if he stumbled.

There was Rhea, too, who’d he yet to see again since their first introduction. She held an air of authority, and he’d spent enough of his life around noblemen to know who was in charge.

A cursory knock at the door. Rinea, undoubtedly, and she always let herself in. He tried the door the second night, when his feet could hold him, and it was unlocked, much to his surprise. Not a prisoner in the traditional sense, if he even was one. He’d yet to reach a conclusion there.

“Good morning, Rinea.” He dreaded leaving the warmth of the bed but he knew better than to eat in bed. Chills wracked his body, and the extra blankets Rinea brought could only do so much. Her scarred hands touched him after dinner, alight in the soft glow of healing magic that functioned without a stave. Azelle always watched her closely for signs of distress. Magic existed without staves and tomes, of course, but she seemed no worse for wear.

“Good morning, Azelle,” she chirped. Her white hair was loose this morning. Clothing, here, was different too. Rinea and the other women he saw in the dining hall were dressed from neck to ankle with little variety. Everyone seemed heavily dressed in spite of the latent heat. The exception was the various Academy students he saw. There was a clear standard uniform, but deviance existed. “Did you sleep well?”

Azelle thought for a moment. “I did. The...rain is over.”

Pushing the blankets back, he swung his legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold against his feet, borrowed socks evidently old. “That it is,” she agreed. She carried more with her this morning. The plates were smaller than they had been, and under her arm was a scroll, yellowed and shimmering, and over her arm was an additional cloak. He rose to help her; most mornings she shook him off, but today she allowed him to take the plates.

Rinea made the bed with a single heavy hand, setting her additional objects down on the bed. “The monastery has small meals some days due to the faith,” she started with. She dusted her hands off on the front of her dress. “If you are still hungry after breakfast, do tell,” she went on to say something else that he did not know, but it sounded wistful enough that he tried to not worry. “You have healed well, and part of is the food, I am sure. Fódlan is odd,” she remarked.

Azelle was not quite sure if he’d ever been truly hurt. Red and rough in some spots, yes, but he felt no pain. He knew what burns looked like. He knew what Meteors could do.

“It’s nice,” he agreed. He’d been quick to recover as a child, too. The cough that stole his mother passed over him with nary a touch.

Rinea did not sit, which was a first, an excitement in her eyes shining brightly. He did eat (even eggs tasted differently here). A hunger gnawed on him since he woke in Fódlan, and he had his feelings why. Fire was real. He knew the scorch.

She asked him a question. He managed to catch _you_ and _monastery_. Rinea was uncomfortably good at reading him, head cocked. She spoke again, a few words he did not know, before simplifying things. “The monastery. You and I. The rain is done.”

Not a prisoner. “Yes,” he agreed; he could not say more. “The monastery.”

She nodded. “A cloak,” she gestured, and he understood that part well, “one of mine. Frey is tall. I am not.”

“I am not,” he agreed. Another bit of his mother in him. He assumed. Part of him stayed desperate since learning _that_ for it to only be her. It explained how her look stayed tender.

Rinea took a few bites of breakfast; she stood on the balls of her feet, surprisingly light. She looked cautiously to the door, and for a moment the only noise in the room was him setting aside his plate. Picking up the scroll, her fingers carefully pried it open (he took the moment to wipe his face); she laid it open on the bed, beckoning him over. “Azelle. Speak your heart. Do you know( - )?” she asked, gesturing to the map. She kneeled beside the bed, her eyes expectant on him. He’d learn early on to be used to eyes on him. It was a part of life, and he joined her. The floor was rough on him.

Before him was a map, he knew that much. In the center was a large continent, and while the lines were not too bold, nor could he read the script, the land was divided amongst four. The bottom half of the map was one entity, with the top half split in two and a sliver smacked in between it all. Corners of the map featured peaks of other lands. His eyes hoped for anything Judgral shaped; perhaps he drifted across the sea; perhaps it was all a long dream, and he truly was _home_ with his mother and brother.

He pressed his hands into his thighs. “No.”

* * *

Garreg Mach Monastery, he quickly learned, never ended.

Rinea talked as they walked, naming structures as they passed. He repeated what he could, though not everything translated. Near the dining hall was the fishing pond and the greenhouse; she took him inside of the latter. The greenhouse keeper looked at them, and while Azelle grew use to looks as a child, he rarely knew how to read them. Rinea told him the name of plants—chickpeas, plums, boa, lillies, pitchers—with a type of pride in her voice he did not expect. Azelle spied no dirt on her hands as he took a look.

They went past the water. He stumbled on _fish_ again. “Would you like to?” she asked. “To _fish_? Frey and I use to.”

“Not...” today; he knew _today_ ; “Not today.”

The marketplace was equally busy. Heat seared beneath the humid air, and he felt the presence of the blacksmith in his teeth. Four main vendors who sold to the monastery, and traveling merchants stopped through. Rinea touched her earrings when she mentioned this.

“Would you like anything? The merchants have-” she paused to revise her words for him, “-good things. Different fruit.” Rinea did not have to look _up_ at him; Azelle and Tailtiu were neck-and-neck for the longest time. Lex was a mountain early on.

He shook his head. “I am fine.” She corrected his pronunciations, huddled in the corner of the market repeating back to one another until she felt satisfied; an odd place to be, the few hairs left on the back of his neck standing from the attention of on-lookers.

Her fingers touched his wrist, the flash that appeared from out beneath the sleeve. In another place, the motion would’ve meant much. He was a son, yes, a spare, but there was value to him. “Good. You have it,” she praised. Her eyes went towards the sky. “There is still time. Carry on?”

Azelle nodded. Her fingers left his skin. She led him back up the stairs. The next space was _open_ , with nothing to it. Columns capped at the ceiling. Clumps of people in various uniforms stood about talking, ample room for everyone to have elbow room. The monastery was full of constant chatter. Rinea made no remarks here, leading him up a second flight of stairs. “You can reach the dining hall through here, too.”

She led him past the doorway. It reminded him of Velthomer, constantly sprawling and never quite over; he’d seen the gates in the market, undoubtedly leading to the townspeople scattered around in their homes. He’d never been locked inside of the Velthomer home, naturally; he was free to spend his time with his mother, and then his nurse, as he pleased, assuming his tutoring was done for the day, far past what was acceptable for a boy to do. The desire to do so dwindled the older he got, but he knew life outside of the halls of Velthomer.

Rinea took him through a green space, decorated with shrubberies and vines crawling up various half-stone walls. Velthomer’s gardens were a source of comfort for him, knuckle-deep in rich soil and planting budding flowers with his mother. Arvis never partook – he was duke, after all, but Azelle saw him smile, once, a man of eleven unburdened by the weight of his title.

He could never compare.

She tugged on his sleeve. “This is the Officer’s Academy,” she started. They stood off to the side. “May I tell you what I can?”

Naturally, it was rough. He understood the colors – black, blue, golden – and knew in some way they were not colors alone. The courtyard in front of the classroom was sparse, but she made doubly sure before tugging him down into the grass. (Wondering if he _was_ permitted out, he strove to ask Rinea later on his status.) Tapestries hung with animals he knew – eagles, deer – and a third Rinea explained to him as a lion, more a creature of fiction than reality.

With the massive doors open, he could spy into the classroom of the Golden Deer. Rows of desks created an aisle, the seats full of students garmented in black. They were focused on the man near the front of the room, who sported a full head of strong gray hair, his form obscured by a brown overcoat trailing to the floor.

Not much he did escaped Rinea; Azelle was unsure how to feel about that. “That is Hanneman von Essar. He teaches the Deer this year. Manuela Casagranda is the lead of the Lions. This is her first year. Frey is...good on her.” It sounded odd, improper, and he knew it was to speak to him. “Etienne Reuter is with the Eagles.”

More fumbling, she was able to tell him the Lions hailed from a kingdom – she mimed putting a crown on her head. The Eagles came from an empire (a bigger crown), and wherever the Deer came from he did not know. “I am of an Empire,” she offered. “Not this one.”

“I am of a kingdom.”

“Faerghus?”

“Grannvale.” The cock of her head. The foreign map. His gut feeling only grew. He glanced at the Eagle. “This Empire is?”

“Adrestia.” Another new name. “The Empire Adrestia, the Kingdom Faerghus, and the Leicester-” the unknown. He toyed with the names on his tongue. They felt _wrong_ , inherently, like he’d never hear them outside of Fódlan. His head ached the more he thought of it, woozy in his stomach, and his heart twinged.

Tailtiu. Lex. Lord Sigurd. Aideen.

Arvis.

He resisted the desire to clench his fist.

Rinea sighed deeply. “I am not with the Academy. Frey is.” Her voice notably softened at his name, and he looked to her; her face gave nothing. “He teaches -” she flicked her hands as if she held the reins of a horse “- riding.”

Azelle had not seen much of Frey, admittedly. They shared lunch, and the man was patient with him when he tried to talk. He knew the two catered their conversations to include him. He understood their meals together. “Riding,” he echoed; wind blew through the courtyard, and his hands gripped the opposite borders of the borrowed cloak, drawing it tighter. Bitterly cold Silesse passed by him, warmed by his own flame, but a summer (if the sun spoke truths) wind nearly made his teeth chatter.

“Yes. Do you?”

Dampening the urge to lean on a nearby column for support, he focused on his breathing. Azelle wished to stay in the open. Stretch his legs, know that this world was more than Rinea’s saintly patience and Frey’s ability to fill a bench by himself in the dining hall. “I do. Do you?” Riding. Ride. Eldigan’s forces. Lachesis surrounded by triplets. Shifting sands, panicked screams.

She smiled. “I do. Frey takes me. He...” another instance of the barrier, her halting to find words suitable for him. “I do not ride _good_. Frey leads.” Azelle understood. Aideen rode improper when she rarely rode, her holy frock trailing to the ground, held by her hands to avoid horse hooves. Did her faith save her? Never one for excessive prayer, he recited a silent one in his head for her.

“It is fun,” he added.

Grannvale.

Rinea looked to the classrooms. It was easy to follow her. The lady professor (what was her name, again?) now brandished a sword, light on her toes as the students watched; some took notes at their desks, some mimed in the aisle. “Shall we head for lunch before they are released?”

* * *

There was more to Garreg Mach, somehow. After lunch – Frey departing with a nod – Rinea took him into yet another hall lined with school benches and work tables. Students milled about, some chatting, some working. Various monastery staff were present as well. Rinea did not keep him there long, and with a crinkle of her nose told him that Frey could show him the Knights’ Hall.

Next on Rinea’s tour was the cathedral. They walked over a bridge, yet more stone, and he glanced over the side. High-up. He did not mind heights. His exposure to them were few. Rinea touched his elbow, fingers gentle yet firm, steering him to leave space between him and the wall. He saved himself from stumbling as she did so.

The cathedral housed more benches, undoubtedly to hold the mass of people he’d seen strewn throughout the monastery, tall ceilings and the light of the sun streaming in. Garreg Mach _Monastery_ he reminded himself, more accustomed to churches and faith within the home.

Thankfully, his lack of knowledge on Fódlan’s faith did not surprise her. She _laughed_ , short and rehearsed, before correcting herself. Feeling stared at again, he checked, and an official looking women in a ridiculous hat openly glared at Rinea.

“Do not worry. Someone is bound to tell you,” she said. “You cannot escape the faith here.” She rested her hands on the back of a pew. Her eyes lingered on the depictions of faith, and his ears picked up on the choir practice happening in the corner. “I am not much of a follower, but the Church of Seiros seems tame enough.”

Desperate for something familiar, “What do you follow?”

“My Empire, Rigel, followed Duma, the,” omitted, “Father. I...do not,” she said quietly; perhaps it was respect for the holy house they stood in; perhaps it was a reverence for her god: he could not ask.

Duma. Rigel. More names to file away, more names that meant nothing.

Exhaustion tugged at him.

“Should we continue?”

“There’s more?”

“Not much.” The glaring monk was still, well, glaring, but Rinea seemed aware of it now, her usually relaxed shoulders tight under a straight back. “One more space, and then we may rest before dinner. Sadly, I am not of much strength.”

* * *

Another green space wrapped around the monastery before connecting to the bridge once more. The gate lifted with a shudder, and she walked alongside him, keeping him from the wall of the bridge. Armed soldiers guarded the entrance way, and despite their covered eyes, goose-flesh bubbled on his arms.

Rinea shooed him, hands and all, up the stairs, too narrow to walk side by side. He doubted her ability to catch him if he did stumble, but it would be a softer landing.

She showed him the room Rhea typically inhabited. “Rhea is... _the_ priest of the Church,” she explained. _The_ priest, higher than a High Priest. He thought of Father Claud, staff in hand, and a religion he thought the bare minimum about. Velthomer followed what Grannvale followed, and he publicly did, too. “She is not here today. Her...helper Seteth oversees the monastery when she is absent.”

He doubted the High Priest of Fódlan’s faith had just a _helper,_ but he knew what she could not say. How long until she could speak to him normally? Would he be here long enough?

(Yes. He knew it.)

She took him pass four sets of offices. One belonged to the aforementioned Seteth, another to the Knights, an infirmary Manuela now led, and Hanneman’s office stockpiled with books. Rinea told him plenty, an affable guide, and as always, he missed some bits. His mind wandered to his brother’s study. He’d been _young_ , tottering his way into the room, fingers trying to reach for a puzzle Arvis kept for stress, undisturbed yet watched, but knocked over an inkwell in the process. Arvis may have been duke, who’d convinced him early on that he’d never been a child, but there were smatterings of a child in him. Both covered in ink, Arvis cracked first. Azelle’s mother and the nurse came running, the duke of Velthomer on the verge of tears and, well, if his mother was to be believed, Azelle did not stop giggling through his subsequent baths.

Arvis didn’t talk to him for a week, rough to understand for a three-year old and the next time he was permitted in the study, the inkwells were moved to the center of the desk.

Startled by the touch of fingers on his elbow, his eyes jumped to Rinea. She bowed her head to the door. “Come. We may rest here till dinner.”

“If you did not have the...strength we could have stayed.”

“My...” she hummed, “non-strength should not harm you. Sunlight is good. Air is good. I do not mind, Azelle,” she assured, her fingers squeezing before letting go. “My company is yours.”

Chest tightening, he dumbly nodded. Rinea, continually unperturbed by his oddities, did not flinch.

Students filled the next room, too, and while he could not say it in the language of Fódlan, he knew what a library was. She led him in, the room cramp between tables, bodies, and ceiling high books. Rinea led him up yet another flight of stairs (feeling the strain in his calves) which featured some breathing room unlike the first floor. Belhalla’s library was more impressive, but this one was not too far off.

Rinea stopped before a particular shelf. “Ladder,” she said, content when he repeated it. “Hold,” she instructed. Azelle steadied the ladder in his hands. He watched – her straight back, the slight bend of her wrist, the sturdiness in her stance and the chunky heel on the back of her boot – for any wobbling. She called herself weak; Azelle spied a different kind of strength in her. Aideen was not swinging a sword anytime soon, but she –

Aideen would not be doing anything, any time soon. In the foreign warmth of Garreg Mach, he ate meals three times a day. Aideen laid charred outside of the capital. Would she be buried? They were _traitors_ , after all, accused of treason. Who cared for a grave?

Aideen stood in Silesse with him, fingers curled around a Fire tome, hair pulled tightly back against the wind (the twins were _twins_ ), and together they practiced. A holy woman first, she shrugged off his spells, but he’d never been that resistant.

He disobeyed Arvis for her in the name of her safety (and a bit of a crush – that worked out _great_ ), dragged Lex into the mess, and now both –

“ _Azelle_ ,” Rinea’s strained voice cut through his thoughts, a tight tone he knew. “Are you well?”

“Fine,” he said quickly, dizzy behind the eyes. “I am fine.”

Their eyes met; Azelle saw the crinkle of skin around them. Book under her arm, fingers around the rung of the ladder, visiting Friege nobility,Tailtiu, wilting: dead.

Concern evident in her eyes (concern for a man she just met, saintly), he looked away. Glares stifled him as a child. Velthomer froze without his mother, blood be damned. Fódlan. Death. Meteors raining from the sky, sword buried in the neck of a sage.

Rinea stepped down one rung. The ladder shook. Another. “I am fine. I am-” without words, without meaning, without, without, _without_ , “Head.” _I am head._ Doing great.

Azelle stepped aside for her. Offering him the tome, he took it, finding comfort in how the binding fit in his palms.

“Come,” she softly grabbed his elbow once more. Open with her touches, her hand stayed on him, moving to his forearm as they sat. “An atlas. You...” more minced words, more attempts to bridge the gap, “You know not Fódlan at large. Grannvale could be...small in Fódlan.” Rinea sounded no more confident than he.

Small in Fódlan. _Small in Fódlan._ Hesitating to ask for clarification, he nodded. He’d missed the mark before, living with the unobtainable.

The binding creaked when he opened the cover. Running his thumb down the spine, Fódlan’s paper felt different, too. Similar enough in texture, panic evaded his heart, yet the small differences made his droning pulse lodge in his throat, a mass he could not swallow.

The atlas contained small cutouts of the map on whole. Maps color coded by, in his experience, noble possessions, with more intimate maps further yet. The titles were labeled, but Fódlan’s written language made just as much sense as Fódlan itself did. Yet his eyes did scan each scrap of paper for anything Velthomer shaped. Did he have Velthomer to return to? Did _he_ want a traitor for a brother? Unlikely. Failure was acceptable – a given – yet treason? Punishable by death.

How was Tailtiu’s son? Arthur, small and toothless and all too fierce, alone in Silesse, waiting for a mother crippled by their friendship. Leave Fódlan, find Silesse, find Arthur, and, then, what? Hand him over to the Friege family? Azelle knew the details Tailtiu was willing to share about her time in Friege, rarely positive, and he’d dig his heels in before sending any child to live there.

He could find Ethnia, he figured, who was just as flighty as Tailtiu. The sisters shared their plights, only acerbated by the death of their grandmother. Could Ethnia raise a child, period? His doubts on Tailtiu and her own motherhood waned the more he saw her with Arthur, but now Tailtiu laid dead. Arthur: alone. Ethnia: questionable. Azelle: cushy in Fódlan.

Azelle took his time – he knew how to study, how to commit things to memory and the skills that came with them. He mastered Fire at seven, Elfire at ten, stumbled with Wind at twelve; he knew the arithmetic his tutors laid out before him even if it came at the flicker of candlelight. Anything to be enough.

Never enough. Never a prick of praise. Never proof he wasn’t more than a burdened promise left by two dead women, a useless boy branded by Fjalar’s blood by chance, by rum. Only ever Arvis’ cool gaze leveled on him, as if Azelle did not know him, and maybe he did not. Never alone at Velthomer, never more than a few nights away, never more than a minor lord who could never compare to the duke, never worth words, killed like any other dissenter.

Never, never, _never_.

Knot growing in his throat, he focused his vision again. Despite knowing it was fruitless, he scanned the maps. Rinea stared at him yet, likewise waiting for his damnation. Adestria. Faerghus. Leicester. Grannvale. Rattling around his head, it all felt wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this work brought to you by edvard grieg (https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PLNhBqWEqK4uTpYxQ3V3TjjRGGIcnduI1E)
> 
> so what is this. who knows. i'd started writing this early during these covid times, went off on a tangent to look into stuff about azel's mother, and my desire to ever touch this again was swept up by her, if the rest of my account is anything to go off of. the original gist of this was: based off of that one theory that i'm not even a big fan of, archanea (and therefore valentia and judgral) are connected due to sothis' similar physical design to naga/tiki/nagi and the fact that sothis came from space, so i decided my favorite charactersTM get to evade death and go hang out in fodlan. michalis was suppose to come eventually. azelle was a busted unit because i'm not biased. i even outlined for this fic. i don't outline. rinea and azelle were suppose to be a thing, eventually. maybe in feh.
> 
> except i'm never finishing this, but was also tired of having this rot in my drafts. who knows tbh.
> 
> thanks for reading.


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